Bugzilla

Opening Day of trout season, southern Oregon, Saturday morning, 1971.

Dad and I were up at dawn, in the old VW truck, and on our way to River "X", which nonchalantly meanders through lush, green farmlands, near the small town of Klamath Falls, Oregon. 

We had our Smoky Spam sandwiches, barbecued potato chips, and a thermos of coffee neatly packed, and carefully stashed alongside our fishing gear, in the back seat of the truck. 

This particular river is a small meadow stream that gently flows through fenced cow pastures, on mostly private land. But access for fishermen is fairly open, (or at least it was in the early 1970's). When we arrived, it was immediately apparent that we would not have the river to ourselves on this day. 

River "X" is known for its large, resident brown and rainbow trout that run up the river from the upper portion of the lake. The water is gin clear, and the plentiful moss beds and deep undercut banks provide the fish an abundant supply of both food and cover. Most of the time, as you walk along the river bank, all one can hear is the sound of Red-Winged Blackbirds, cows crooning in the distance, and occasionally, the rare, indescribable sound of mating Sandhill Cranes. The river is slow-moving, very quiet, and pastoral.

On this particular morning, we had armed ourselves with plenty of large night crawlers, which I had personally selected from our sprinkler-soaked lawn the night before. Dad had also brought along a good supply of Thomas Buoyant lures, and his all-time favorite; the "Gold Phoebe." This lure was Dad's secret weapon. It's a "wobbler" style of lure, designed to imitate an injured minnow. I have watched him catch big fish with a gold Phoebe, when no one else could catch anything. Dad had a way of thinking like a fish. He intuitively knew where a nice trout would be hiding; under a cut bank, behind a rock, or near an over-hanging branch.

At this time I had not yet learned to fly fish, so I was still a "hardware" guy. And on this opening day, even though I did see Dad catch a few nice fish on his gold Phoebe, I was getting skunked using my fresh batch of night crawlers.

As I sat on the bank feeling pretty dejected, I happened to notice a rather crusty old gentleman coming up the bank carrying a fly rod. It was a beautiful bamboo rod, with a Pfleuger Medalist reel attached, loaded with dark brown sinking line. He had a well-seasoned wicker creel hanging off his shoulder. I asked him, "Having any luck?"  He walked over and opened his creel. I gasped. He had three or four big brown trout, and one hefty rainbow trout inside. That creel was packed! I stammered, "What are you using?!" He showed me a jar of Pautzke's Green Label Salmon eggs. He told me he had been drifting a single salmon egg under the cut banks, on a short leader, using a heavily weighted sinking line. He just gave me a friendly smile, said "good luck" and walked off.

I was still sitting on the bank, thinking about those big trout he had in his creel when I was startled by a huge "Splash!" I quickly turned to look upstream to see what had made the commotion, but all I could see were the eccentric rings moving outward, from the rise of a very large trout. Some of us fly fishermen today call this kind of noisy, violent rise made by a big fish a, "Toilet bowl flush." It makes a very loud "Whoosh" kind of sound, and is unmistakable.

I fixed my gaze on the spot where that big fish had risen just a moment before. A minute later, I saw it, "Whoosh!" It was a very nice fish. What the heck was he eating? I had no clue. And then as I scanned the surface of the water, I saw something 'buzzing' on top of the water. It was some kind of large bug, spinning in circles, making a very noticeable flutter on the water. As I watched it drift downstream, out of nowhere, "Whoosh!" That bug was history! 

So I started looking around. I walked along the river looking for more of those big bugs. It didn't take me long to find one drifting close to the bank. After a couple of attempts, made without falling into the river, I grabbed one. It was huge. I had never seen a bug like this. It looked like it had two stingers on the back end. But it didn't sting me. However the legs were pretty spiny. The belly of the bug was light orange and segmented. There were four translucent wings laying flat across the back, which had lots of dark brown veins going through them. At the end of a fairly large head, were two very long antennae. Behind the head was a bright orange band.

After seeing the fish ferociously devour these bugs, I got this big smile on my face and knew in an instant that I had just found my own "Secret Weapon." I was going to catch lots of big trout and show my Dad up for a change. I got out a big number four Eagle Claw worm hook, and tried my best to run just enough of the hook through the back of the bug to keep it attached, but not so much that it would stop the bug from fluttering, as that commotion the bug made on the surface, was what was enticing these big trout to explode on them.

Well, as you can probably guess, I butchered that bug pretty badly the more I tried to get him hooked. The darn thing would not hold still. Once I finally got it rigged up, and found a way to cast the bug out close to where I had seen the fish rising, the bug was no longer fluttering at all. I guess I would not be moving much if someone had impaled me with a huge iron hook either.

My clumsy attempts at casting scared off every fish in the area. There was no "stealth" whatsoever to my approach. I was really bummed out. I had not caught a single fish. My "Secret Weapon" was a flop. It was Opening Day, and I got skunked. 

I finally did catch up with Dad. As expected, he had a nice catch of plump trout, caught on what else? you guessed it—his old faithful Gold Phoebe. I had caught another one of those huge bugs and stuffed it in my creel. When I pulled it out and showed it to Dad, I asked him, "What the heck is this thing?" He said, "Salmon Fly."

We got back to the truck and soaked up the warmth of the afternoon sun, as we ate our chips and sandwiches and gulped down cups of hot coffee. I could not stop thinking of the way those huge trout were coming up and exploding on the big salmon flies! I had to find a way to fish those bugs, in a way that they floated right and still had some motion. I thought about it the whole way home.

The next morning, I remembered some of the flies I had seen at the local sporting goods store. But I didn't know how to tie flies, nor did I have any fly tying gear. So I found a large enough bait hook in my box and asked my mom is she had any orange sewing thread. She did. I then grabbed some scissors and a couple of Pheasant tail feathers that Dad had in his shop and I set off for my hobby room, which was adjacent to the bedroom I shared with my brother. 

Now, I don't know if any of you who are fly tiers have ever tried to tie a fly while holding the hook in your hand, but if you haven't, trust me. It is not an easy feat to accomplish. But I was a twelve year old kid who loved fishing more than anything in life at that time. And I was bound and determined to tie my first fly; namely, my own salmon fly!

I only wish I had saved that first fly. 

But it is long gone. Probably rotting in a land fill somewhere in Klamath Falls. This fly was just plain ugly. Maybe hideous is a better word to describe it. It could rightly be called the Beast. It certainly could be called an atrocity. But from this point forward, I will forever refer to it as "Bugzilla."

As I held the hook firmly between my left thumb and forefinger, I had to cinch the short end of the piece of orange cotton sewing thread between my thumb and fingers. As I began to cover the hook with it, I was surprised at how much tread it takes to build a fly body. For the tail, I used a piece of the stiff tip of a Pheasant tail, shaped to look what I thought a salmon fly tail should look like. Apparently, I had already forgotten that the tail on the real McCoy was a forked tail. But hey, this was my first fly after all.

After securing my crude excuse for a tail, I began to build up the orange body to the size I remembered the bug being out on the river. For legs, or "hackle" I clipped some of the brown hair off my own head, and very crudely fastened that on to try and imitate some sort of legs. For the wings, I took another one of my Dad's Pheasant tails and clipped the end to be the size and shape of the real salmon fly wings. It seemed like it needed some more hackle to aid in flotation, so I snipped off some more Mark-hair and tied that in.

No description I can give you of this Flyenstein Monster can accurately begin to describe the horror that it was. It was huge, gaudy, ill-proportioned, and crude. It was the Cromagnon Man of trout flies. A fly freak show. 

I eventually covered enough of my mistakes with the orange thread to be somewhat satisfied with it, and tied off what amounted to a bulbous head that even Jimmy Durante would be proud of. A couple of messy drops of my Mom's clear fingernail polish on the head sealed the deal, and I had completed my first fly.

Upon showing it to my Dad, his response was, "Uh.... nice. Good first try there, Mark." I think it scared him.

We went back to the river the next weekend, but there were no salmon flies hatching at that time. There were no fish rising for any kind of bugs that day, as I recall. But I still flogged the water with Bugzilla for a couple of hours. I didn't have any dry fly spray then, so, of course, it sunk like a rock. 

Note to self: cotton sewing thread is not a good body material for dry flies. 

It was about this time that my Grand Dad who lived in Redding, California, sent his old fly tying kit to me over in Oregon. It contained an amazing collection of very old, but somewhat usable, feathers, hackles, hooks and supplies. He made the long, flat, wooden box by hand, and wood burned a design onto the lid that he had copied off an old Field and Stream magazine cover, of a mother bear and her two cubs ransacking a fishermen's camp, while they were in the process of trying to land a trout out in the stream. It was really a work of art. He made individual compartments for each kind of feather, hooks, and tools. He even hand-forged his own advanced design, steel fly tying vise, that I still use to this day. He was a true craftsman.

Even though Bugzilla was like a science project gone horribly wrong, it motivated me even more to learn to tie flies that actually catch fish. And it was the start of a wonderful life of learning to fly fish and tie flies proficiently. 

And I have to say, catching a nice trout on an original fly that you designed is a true thrill.

Now, some forty two years later, whenever I see a giant salmon fly fluttering on the quiet surface of a meandering trout stream, it takes me back to that sunny opening day in southern Oregon, where a young boy saw his first salmon fly and heard his first toilet bowl flush rise, from a huge brown trout also searching for Bugzilla...

—At the End of My Line.

Brown Trout, Instant Breakfast and an Angry Bull

As we drove through the night to get out of the city, I lay in the back of the station wagon, looking upward, watching every street light as we passed underneath. Eventually the lights were fewer and far between, until they were gone, and we were alone in the desert with only the stars to keep us company.

The "high sierras" were what our family affectionately called the eastern high desert valley which includes Bishop California, and from there, our ultimate destination; the Arcularius Ranch, where our prized river awaited us, complete with lunker brown trout and a welcoming guest cabin.

I'll never forget the old guest cabin on the ranch. It was pretty rustic, but comfortable.

I can still remember the smell of the gas stove when my dad lit it every morning. When I finally could drag myself out of bed, and pull on my blue jeans and wrinkled, dark blue madras shirt, I made my way to the kitchen, which was lined with a warm, seasoned knotty pine.

Arcularius Ranch Guest Cabin

The Kitchen in the Guest Cabin

The first time I had ever tried Carnation Instant Breakfast was on our trip to the ranch. To this day, it remains an integral part of my fond memories of fishing with my Dad.

On this particular trip to the ranch, my distinct memory is that my Dad, my Cousin David and me were present. My cousin David insists that my brother Jon was along, but I have absolutely no recollection of that.

The River is a crystal clear stream, which meanders through lush cow pastures, tall grass, and the occasional sage brush or willow. There are deep, dark undercut banks, where monster brown trout hide, waiting for an unsuspecting meal to swim into their lair. Brown trout of over ten pounds have been caught over the years here. Though, few of that size are ever tricked by fishermen. 

They didn't get that big by being dumb trout.

I remember my Dad and Grand Dad catching some really big trout back in the mid-60's, though none that ever went ten pounds. My Grand Dad caught his share of trout on flies. But my Dad, David, and I used night crawlers. "Big trout want a big meal" as my Dad used to say.

My earliest memory of fishing was when I was three years old. Dad tied a long rope around his waist, through the belt loops on his Levis 501's. He tied the opposite end of the rope through the belt loops of my much smaller Levis 501's. Then he rigged up my Zebco kids push button rod and reel with a big night crawler, on a size 4 Eagle Claw bait hook. And he sat me on a rock in the middle of the stream. 

My first fish was a feisty three pound brown trout. And I have been hooked ever since.

On this particular trip with Dad and cousin David, I was probably five or six. After our early morning meal of coffee and Carnation Instant Breakfast (I think I chose strawberry), we set out with our fishing rods rigged up and ready to go. Dad had his old army-green fishing vest on, net hooked to the back, and I carried the worms. And, probably because Dad asked him to, David did his best to keep an eye on me.

Now, if I accurately recall the events that follow, somewhere in our mid-day meandering through cow pastures, searching for prime undercut banks where the biggest browns were hiding, we came across a herd of about a dozen Hereford cows—being closely guarded by one particularly large, extremely aggressive Hereford bull. 

I had been around cows a few times before. We'd run into them along the river. This was a cattle ranch after all. But this bull was no ordinary "cow." He had big, threatening horns that matched his attitude. He was pawing at the dirt and kicking up quite a bit of dust.

I could sense my Dad's alarm at the behavior of this bull. With a sense of urgency in his voice and demeanor, he whispered to David to take me and go back, and go around a stand of willows, and he was going to keep the attention of that bull, and draw it away from David and me, to keep us safe. I was scared to death. Really scared for us, but even more scared for my Dad. I couldn't stop bawling, and making a lot of noise.  

We did as Dad said, and went around the willows, where Dad said he would meet up with us after he got rid of that bull. I kept bawling, "I want my dad!" Understandably, David was getting mad at me and kept telling me to "shut up."

After what seemed like a long time, to my relief, Dad finally showed up and met us on the other side. I don't recall seeing that bull again for the rest of the day. And that was just fine with me. That was probably the most scared I had ever been as a kid.

But even with that scary incident with the bull, this was one of my most memorable childhood experiences. I saw my Dad's true character in action. He risked his own neck to protect me and David. He was an honorable man and he led by example then, and throughout his life. 

He was a hero in my book.

These trips with Dad, to fish the Arcularius Ranch in the 1960's were my initiation into what has become a lifetime of fishing and enjoying and appreciating the outdoors.

Silly things like remembering the fragrance of cow pies (and throwing them at my brothers) are etched into my past. The smell of dry fly spray, Ponderosa pine trees, Cutters insect repellent, and Dinty Moore Beef stew cooking on the old Coleman camp stove, are indelibly stamped into my consciousness.

I hear the fishing on the River is still pretty decent these days. And the old guest cabin still stands on the site of the original Arcularius Ranch, though it is under new ownership, and sadly, is not accessible anymore to most folks. So I'll probably never go back.

No. I know I'll never go back.

This life has taught me that people and places are only in your life for a season. Some of those seasons are long, and some, fairly short.

But you can never go back and re-create what you once had, back in a particular time, or place in the past.

So enjoy them for what they are—memories from another time and another place, which have helped shaped your life and character. 

And I, too, will enjoy my memories from days gone by, of instant breakfast, fishing with Dad, evading an angry bull, and chasing elusive brown trout...

—At the End of My Line.

A Legacy

Donn J. Faulkner (1933-1992)

"While lightning struck near Donn's Crick,

And Sandhill Cranes flew overhead,

He tramped along the grassy banks,

In hopes his lure would do the trick.

He cast to pools where big ones hid,

And played a hunch near a rocky ledge,

'Twas all in vain this cloudy day,

Ol' fighter eluded his every bid."

(M.S. 1971)

My Dad was not a perfect father. But to me, he was a great one. And I never doubted his love for me, and for our family. 

And it is only now, as I reflect on my own many failings at being a dad and a husband, that I can begin to understand my father's strengths, failings, and weaknesses, in the midst of the many trials and tribulations we all face in this difficult world.

As a young husband, trying to make his start as a talented, budding architect in southern California, my Dad helped raise five rambunctious kids, in the crazy and uncertain era of the early 1960's. He saw early on, what was happening in Orange County, and what the future held, and, fortunately for all of us kids, he got us the hell out of there.

We moved north to Redding, California, which at the time, had a population of around 30,000 people. Dad dove right in to exploring the rivers, lakes and back roads of our new surroundings. And it was here, that he introduced the family to tent camping. 

I can recall spending entire weekends in soggy tents, as the rain poured unceasingly, and unmercifully. Funny, how it always seemed to have a way of letting up right before it was time to go home.

Armed with our little Zebco push-button rod-n-reel outfits, us kids went through record numbers of Pautzke's Green Label Salmon Eggs, in search of elusive nine inch hatchery planter rainbow trout. Dad always seemed to find campgrounds suitable for a family of seven, and with a small, trout-stocked creek nearby. I learned to love falling asleep to the sounds of a rushing creek at a very young age. 

Redding was growing way too fast for Dad, and even though it was a far cry from the craziness of Orange County, Dad's heart-strings were being pulled as a wilderness wanderer. And for him, it simply was not happening in California. 

His internal compass was always set on north.

So, in 1971, he and mom pulled up stakes, loaded five snot-nosed kids, our dog Sam, and "Kitty" into our old Volkswagon double-cab pickup, and moved us to Klamath Falls, Oregon.

Dad had plenty of room to roam in the mountains and desert areas of southern Oregon. It was here that I first recall falling in love with the smell of Sage Brush and Juniper trees. And there were plenty of those in southern Oregon. I first learned to shoot a shotgun, hunt ducks, drive a car, tie flies and fly fish in Oregon. And there were no shortages of beautiful places to hunt and fish here. 

As a kid who loved hunting and fishing and the outdoors, for me it was heaven.

My Dad was amazingly meticulous and organized. He always made check lists before a camping or hunting trip. I don't ever recall anything being left at home, since his check lists kept us well prepared. Dad also made the best camps I have ever seen. He built some folding camp tables that fit perfectly in the back of our VW truck. He knew how to build the best campfires, and always brought along his old 12' x 15' canvas tarp, so that when it rained, the cooking area stayed warm and dry. 

Dad taught us to drive, in the old VW pickup. He took us out on the 'safe' back roads of the Oregon high desert. and between moments of road hunting, he would let us take turns learning how to drive a standard transmission. I found it relatively easy to drive a stick. What was not so easy, was being under the tutelage of a stern task master. My Dad was tough. If you messed up, he let you know it.

I remember one incident when I came to a four-way intersection on some back road in the middle of nowhere. There may have been a stop sign. But there were no cars within a hundred miles of us. I asked Dad, "Is it clear?" He said, "clear." I got half-way into the intersection, and, as loud as he could, he yelled, "STOP!" I practically pissed my pants. Dad barked at me, "You NEVER ask someone if it's clear! You ALWAYS look both ways, and make sure it is clear for YOURSELF!" 

This was just one of many training sessions with my Dad. He was very strict, but he instilled good values into me that remain to this day. One of his most memorable statements while teaching me to drive was: "Son, you gotta drive like every other driver on the road is a damn, crazy idiot!" That advice has saved my life more than a few times.

Dad soon opened his own architectural office in Klamath Falls. He eventually hired one young draftsman when business picked up. I think the guy's name was "Gary?" All I remember about Gary was that he loved the band, "Steppenwolf."  He used to sing along to the song "The Pusher" like a crazy man, when my Dad stepped out to meet with a client. I don't know whatever happened to that guy. He wasn't the best influence on us kids.

Eventually, the economy of the early 70's took a nose-dive, and Klamath Falls stopped growing. No one was building new buildings. So, once again, Dad moved us north. After a long exploration of looking for the best place to find a good job opportunity, Dad decided on Boise, Idaho in 1974. 

Dad had built up a pretty good outdoor book collection by the time we settled into life in Boise. But the one book that stands out to me is, "Trails of a Wilderness Wanderer" by Andy Russell. I remember this book being on dad's table more than any other. And this was who my father really was at heart. 

In many ways, I think Dad was born 100 years too late. 

Dad had a Jeep Wagoneer. But that vehicle also went away, and a sturdy, Dodge Power Wagon 4x4 truck was purchased. Dad soon put a camper on the old Dodge, and thus began the many years and miles of exploration of southern and central Idaho. I don't remember how many hundred thousand miles that old truck logged in before Dad's passing, but it was a lot. 

The last piece of exploratory equipment Dad bought was a pair of Honda 90 trail bikes. These were somewhat for exploring. But the primary use Dad had in mind, was for hunting. Specifically, to haul out front and hind elk quarters, which were just too heavy for Dad as he aged and his health began to decline. I think my Dad had more fun on these bikes than anything else I can recall. The trail bikes accompanied him on most of his outings in the mountains of Idaho and Montana.

But what most shaped me as a young man, was witnessing the love my Dad had for my Mom.

(Mom at "Notellum Lake" - Idaho, 1980's)

And even though there were brief moments when Mom was upset that Dad spent more time in the mountains than he did with her, their marriage was solid, and was an inspiration to me. I once asked Mom, "What is the secret to your marriage?" She said, "We are both willing to give more to the the other, than we're willing to get." She said each of them were committed to giving 110% to each other. I told her that someday I wanted to have the kind of marriage that she and Dad had. 

And I eventually did find the wonderful wife I had always longed for. 

My Dad left an amazing legacy—of a man who, imperfect as he was, loved his wife and children with all of his heart. He had a dedicated work ethic. Work hard, study hard, do your best. And he had an incredible respect for nature, for mountains, rivers, and meadows, and for the wildlife that lived there.

And, in spirit and heart, Dad truly was a wilderness wanderer. 

He wanted to be free from the B.S. of politics, overcrowding, and inconsiderate jerks who did not love and respect the mountains and wildlife the way that he did. He did not want to be fenced in, in any way. It was not acceptable to him to be packed in to a pay-per night campground with hordes of other people. 

High on a mountain, where crystal clear streams flow freely, and the deer and elk roam in abundance, is where Dad most felt at home.

(Father's Day, 1972)

My Dad loved me. And he loved our entire family. 

With all of his imperfections, and his shortcomings and mistakes, he loved us. He did the best he could. I know he had some regrets. But so do we all. 

I am extremely thankful for the life I had with my Dad. He taught me well. And even though at the time I was not very happy with how strict he was with me, in retrospect, it probably kept me out of prison, or worse. 

It's been over eleven years since Dad's passing. I still miss him and think of him often. I could always go to him with a problem. He was always willing to be a patient, listening ear and offer a father's wisdom where appropriate. And whether it was sitting around a campfire, or just driving in the truck, I really enjoyed spending time with him. 

So Dad, I thank you, for loving me, and for giving of yourself. You always had my love and respect, even though I did not show it throughout my rebellious years.

Looking forward to the day that I will see you again...

—At The End of My Line.

The End of My Line

I felt compelled to start this new fly fishing blog as a medium for sharing a lifetime of my Dad's lessons, our personal stories, unforgettable experiences, priceless relationships, and the 'rythym of life'... which I believe one can best experience by standing waist-deep in a cold, clear trout stream.

The precious rivers of the American west are a rapidly vanishing treasure.

And because our home waters are not an inexhaustible resource, you will never hear me divulge the specific locations of any of my favorite spots, or the names of our rivers.

Over the last thirty years, I have watched my home waters become overrun with crowds of people, to the point that the resources are being destroyed.

In the early 1980's a friend of mine manged a local fly shop. He told me that it was "store policy" to never mention the name of a favorite local tailwater river. Back then, you could fish that particular river, even on a Saturday, and not see many people. I recall beautiful fall days where I had a mile or more of river to myself, and rarely ever saw another angler there.

And on the rare occasion that I did bump into another fisherman, whoever was the 'newcomer' to the spot, respectfully moved on to another stretch, far down the river, and out of sight.

This is how my Dad raised me in the seventies.

Respect the environment. Leave your campsite better than you found it. Respect other people. Give them a lot of space on the river, as you would have them give you your space. You know, the old, "Golden Rule."

Not sure how many people still remember, much less live by that grand way of life.

We had a favorite "family camp spot" out in the middle of nowhere, just off the edge of the Oregon desert. This stream, ("Notellum Creek"), is the little river where I first learned to fly fish. It was a small, mid-sized stream. A mix of Juniper, Lodgepole, and Ponderosa pine trees, blended with Sage Brush, and select meadows, were all around the river.

Occasionally, we would get to "our family spot" and find another family already camped there. And though us kids were all deeply disappointed that we missed getting our spot, Dad always insisted that we move at least a mile down the road, and not infringe on the other folks' privacy or space. He was a true gentleman in this sense. He really respected other people in the woods, and taught us these same values.

Dad's values of respect and kindness toward others remain with me to this day.

Nowadays though, on my favorite local rivers, far too often, I tend to run into rude, inconsiderate anglers who show absolutely no respect for you, your space, or the fact that you were there first.

And as much as I want to go off on some rant of bad experiences I have had on these rivers, I will leave that to your imagination.

You get the point.

If you arrive on the river to a spot you really wanted to fish, but there is already another vehicle parked there, keep on moving. Don't blaze down the trail and plop in the river 30 feet away from another fisherman. Would you like it if someone did that to you? Of course not. Show some respect, courtesy, and kindness.

My desire with this blog is to reach out to some of the younger, or inexperienced anglers, and (if they'll permit me) take them "under my wing" as it were, and try to respectfully pass along some of the life lessons my Dad taught me about stream etiquette, and respecting other people's space in the woods, or on the river.

I don't think a lot of people have ever been taught this.

So, I try my best to have some grace for those who don't yet "get it."

And while the largest percentage of offenders I have personally run into on the rivers have mostly been under 40, there have certainly been rude people of all ages.

It's not my intention to pick on people or offend anyone. Just to try and pass along the same values my Father and Grandfather passed along to me.

Fly fishing was presented to me as a way of life from my Grandfather. It was an art form to him. It wasn't really even a "sport." He fished, in his prime, mostly back in the 1930's through the 1950's. He was a gifted fly tyer, and a fly casting accuracy champion. But he was a true gentleman of the sport. Not a stuffy, elitist, upper crust kind of guy. Just a man who loved his family, loved the outdoors, and the pursuit of his passion for fly fishing in the mountain streams of the High Sierras of California.

My Dad was more of a lure fisherman. But he picked up fly fishing later in life, and really loved it. Dad was truly a wilderness wanderer at heart. He loved elk hunting probably more than anything. But his true passion was for wide open mountain spaces, meadows, and rivers; far from the maddening crowd. His wilderness wanderer 'religion' did not allow for camping in "pay to camp" sites, alongside thirty or forty other people.

I remember riding in Dad's old Dodge Power Wagon truck, exploring mile after mile of logging roads together, or we'd blaze off on whatever road looked like it was worth taking a look at. Growing up in Southwest Idaho, we logged tens of thousands of miles on that old truck over the years. Every once in a while, those long, dusty, bumpy roads we explored, led to some pretty amazing places in the mountains, that we would never have found otherwise.

And I think that's one reason that I don't feel obligated to share every special spot I have discovered with the general public online. Half the fun and fascination, was discovering these amazing places for ourselves. They were much more special to us that way. And we have protected and preserved them all the more because of it.

More than anything, for me, the best times I have had out fishing, have been with my Dad, or with my true friends who are like a "Band of Brothers." Fishing, and the fellowship that go with it, are really a spiritual experience. Don't get me wrong, I love to catch big trout. It's a blast.

But the truly memorable times in my life have been the times of fellowship spent in the outdoors with a true friend who sticks closer than a brother.

(Me and my buddy, Craig)

As I write this it's a cold January day.

But Spring is right around the corner. And I long for those warm days when I can hop in the truck, and drive out across the farmlands, and unwind as I think about the smell of sagebrush, and hear the sound of Red-winged Blackbirds, and the gentle sounds of the river.

This is just the first of what I hope to be many more pages of shared memories, new stories, colorful photographs, and memorable times spent with a good friend on the river.

So I invite you to come along, and join in the story,

At the End of My Line...

-M